My Stupid Mouth
by Alexis.Danaan
Summary: Draco should never have said anything. He should have just kept his stupid mouth shut, smiled and nodded. He should have known better. Unfortunately for Draco Malfoy, he was an idiot sometimes.


**My Stupid Mouth**

**A/N: Just a short little Dramione to make you smile. Rated M for language, no smut.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, but I really, **_**really**_** wish I did.**

Draco was going to kill her.

Slowly.

So what if she was his wife? He was sure she deserved it for this. He had been able to put up with all the other insane activities; he had even enjoyed a few, though he would never admit it to her, but this! This was the final straw. Hermione Malfoy, née Granger, was about to meet her untimely demise.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how he has gotten to this point in his life. It had started when he had foolishly mentioned that he was sure no one could acclimatize a wizard born and raised in the upper echelons of pureblooded society to the world of Muggles. He looked back on that as one of the stupidest moments of his life. It certainly ranked up there with letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts and on days like today, he wasn't sure if it didn't rank above it.

It began with restaurants. He had been okay with that. With the exception of having to wait longer for his food, it hadn't been that bad. The Muggles were polite and courteous towards him and his wife, the food was quite good and though he had told Hermione that it was only satisfactory her smirk suggested that she was silently calling his bluff.

After sit down restaurants came Muggle take-away and ice cream stands in the park near where she had grown up. Her parents had accompanied them to the park several times and her father always brought along old bread to feed t the swans in the small pond. Draco secretly loved that and the two men had spent many an hour sitting by the water chatting and feeding the birds. Hermione had been close to glowing with happiness that her new husband and her father had seemed to have mended bridges—things had been rocky when they had first announced their relationship. That was, of course, until one of the feathered gits bit his finger as he was trying to feed it. He had yelped like a child and wandlessly turned the blasted thing into a hat for its crime. Hermione had been outraged and made him change it back, which he had been reluctant to do. Her father had found the whole situation hysterical and later privately asked Draco if he would please do that to his neighbour's rooster. Yes, apparently Mr. Granger had a barmy old man in the house next door who was determined to keep a bloody chicken in his tiny back yard. Draco had felt that they had mended yet another bridge when, two weeks later, he showed up at the Granger home holding a gaudy hat reminiscent of the one Neville Longbottom had once forced onto the form of a Boggart-Snape. It held a place of honour on Granger's mantel though neither the missus nor Hermione knew where Mr. Granger had gotten it from. If Mrs. Granger noticed the absence of crowing in the morning that coincided with the arrival of the decorative piece, she didn't mention it to anyone.

Draco looked back on that time fondly, it was nothing compared to what his wife had in store for him. The torture slowly progressed from somewhat enjoyable to tolerable and finally to insanity inducing. Next had come museums of history and art. They had taken the "tube" to get to most of them, Hermione insisting that it was all part of the _experience_. All he got out of that "experience" was possibly late onset claustrophobia. Once there, Hermione had displayed her ability to be a walking textbook about both the Muggle and the Wizarding worlds. He would never admit it but he enjoyed her lessons, she was much livelier than Binns and she let him kiss her when she got that excited flush of enthusiasm in her cheeks. He had never wanted to kiss Binns, thankfully, though that might have woken the old dust bag up a little. Hermione's enjoyment had always been catching and he had found himself actually interested in Muggle history and where it over lapped with that of Wizards. What he didn't care for, at all mind you, were the screaming children. Were all children that loud and obnoxious? Or was it just Muggle children? Hermione maintained that it was all children but he wasn't convinced. _He_ had never acted that way, after all, and he had told her as much. She had kissed him sweetly and told him that he was a sour puss. He still had no idea what that was but he protested it anyway. The idea of being any sort of "puss" was disconcerting. Wasn't that a term for cats? His mind instantly went to Crookshanks and his squashed face. No, he was definitely not a "puss".

As if his darling wife had purposefully misunderstood his quiet ranting and death glares directed at the shrieking children who populated the various museums she had dragged him to, she decided that it would be a splendid idea to bring him to an "amusement park". What the fuck was amusing about children screaming for treats, or crying for various reasons, he had no idea. To top it off, she put him on the damned Muggle contraptions that made the children lose their shit. She had maintained that he would enjoy it since he loved doing "those heart stopping, ridiculous stunts on that infernal collection of twigs" and he might have were it not for the fact that he was strapped into the bloody Muggle machines! He had no control in those things! How could he avert disaster if there was no broom to ride? How could he save her if they were both strapped into the infernal thing? He had hated it and his death grip on her hand had not ceased until they were both safe on the ground again. He had promptly turned to her and demanded to know how on Merlin's sweet earth she could ride _those_ things but not on a broom with him? He left no doubt in her mind that he would get her ass on a broom with him after enduring that bullshit.

But Hermione, his sweet Hermione—alright, she wasn't all that sweet except for when she wanted something or her father was around. She was a daddy's girl, his witch, and old man Granger ate it up. It was a wonder she wasn't a spoilt nightmare like Parkinson with the way her father doted on her. Either way, she decided that Draco needed to experience Muggle music, "one of the ultimate forms of expression, the baring of the human soul".

Uh huh.

He was all set to sit down in their kitchen where she kept the "stereo" so that she could sing along to the radio while she cooked. The machine, along with all their Muggle contraptions, had special charms put on them by Arthur Weasley which allowed them to run in a magical household and using magic instead of...whatever it was Hermione had said Muggles use. Elect something. Eletiony? He had no idea but it had made the head of the Weasley brood quite rich and famous.

The ground underneath his feet rumbled as a dull roaring filled the air around him and Draco ground his teeth together in a vain attempt to block out the fluttering in the pit of his belly. He cast his mind back, frantically trying to distract himself and came back to what he had dubbed "the second stupidest moment of my life". He had been so foolish in those days. To think that he actually believed Hermione would be content with listening to the wireless at home! He would have shook his head in disgust were it not pinned to the back of his seat in fear. He recalled the two tickets that she had flashed in his face before promptly telling him to change into Muggle clothing. He quickly found himself crammed into a Muggle taxi where the man chatted up his wife and kept mentioning things like famous footballers whom Draco obviously didn't know and thus felt stupid when the cabbie would say things like, "Where'd you get this one lovie? Foreign, is he?". The man had no idea how close he had been to getting hexed within an inch of his life, the Statute of Secrecy be damned. When they had finally reached their destination and Draco realized what was in store for him he had almost called out to the annoying Muggle man and beg him to take him away. He remembered looking up at the sign depicting the name of the rock band they were going to see as he felt the beginnings of a massive migraine forming. He had heard about these events and the bass that was already thrumming through his body had not reassured him. Practically having to drag him, Hermione had used her wand to covertly distract Muggles and "suggest" that they give up their spots by the stage. Soon enough he had found himself at the front of a wild crowd, the press of bodies against him intense and uncomfortable. The noise, not music, made his ears ring and his head pound. If he had thought that he was claustrophobic on the London tube, he had been mistaken. There is nothing like being pressed against sweaty bodies in a sea of hundreds of other writhing, dancing bodies to induce a phobia. Thankfully, Hermione had realized his discomfort and had cleverly created a bubble around them that the Muggles could not see or detect in any way. It blocked out the worst of the music and kept the dancing people at bay. When she had turned to him with her beautiful eyes and asked if he wanted to leave he had been unable to ruin her obvious delight.

He had no such qualms now.

"Draco, you just need to relax," his witch murmured, placing her hand over his arm. The arm that was attached to the hand that was clutching desperately at his seat as if it could save him if this fucking Muggle tin can dropped out of the sky at 36,000 feet.

"I hate you right now," he muttered between clenched teeth. He couldn't spare a glance at her, she was next to the window (he had absolutely refused to sit there) which would mean he would have to see their tin bird hurtling down the "runway". It rumbled and roared beneath them, making his stomach swoop.

"I love you, too," he could hear her rolling her eyes at him. "You are a wizard," she whispered in his ear, "what are you so afraid of?"

"That I won't be able to get us both out of this death trap before it's too late!" he hissed back, eyes glued to the back of the seat in front of him and probably more than a little bugged out. "Do you know how hard it is to Apparate in and out of a moving object? Especially one moving this fast?"

She huffed. "Draco, I am a witch, remember?"

"Yes, now do tell me why we are in this bloody thing instead of strolling hand in hand through the Apparition terminal in Moscow International?" he thought he might have managed to come off cool and composed but he highly doubted it.

"Because this is the authentic Muggle way to travel!"

"We are not-Oh sweet Circe!" he yelped as the swooping sensation in his stomach intensified and the roar of the engines doubled. He saw Hermione grin out of the corner of his eye and pop a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, he already had his but it was clamped between his teeth for fear of choking on it.

For several moments all Draco knew was intense fear that he had not felt for many years and the soothing feel of Hermione's hand over his. It wasn't until the plane levelled out and the seat belt sign was switched off that he felt like he could breathe again.

He turned to glare at his wife. "Not even Potter tolerates this and he was raised by Mug—" he glanced around at the people who were getting comfortable for a long ride, "—by this lot."

"Yes, and Harry has an aversion to Floo travel as well, I don't see you distaining that just because _Harry_ does."

"It's not my fault Potter is weird," he grumbled, working his fingers loose from the arm rest.

"He's not weird, he just doesn't like the sensation—oh!" she cut herself off as the plane swooped suddenly. The captain's voice came on the speakers and apologised for the hot air pocket they had hit and assured passengers that they need not worry.

Draco was not reassured.

"You mean sensations like _that_?" he demanded when he could breathe again.

"Draco, it's just a little air pocket. Hiccups happen, even in our world," she told him, waving a hand dismissively in a mannerism that was pure Malfoy. His witch had taken up many of his habits, whether she realized it or not. Fortunately for him, her horrid friends Weasel and Potter _had_ noticed and Draco could never quite conceal his glee when Hermione would do something Malfoyish—like a lazy smirk—in front of the gingie. The look on that freckled face was worth half his vault in Gringotts.

"You need a distraction," Hermione announced, pulling his mind out of his thoughts. "Want to join the mile high club?" She gave him a saucy grin that caught his attention despite the fact that he was still sure that they would die before reaching Russia.

"What deranged Muggle group is that?" he asked, the curiosity in his tone contradicting the words that came out of his mouth.

She smirked in a way that was distinctly Malfoy. "Meet me in the back and find out."

With that, she stood and made a great show of straddling his lap, which put her breasts in his face, in order to clamber over him. He felt her hands deftly slide down his torso and linger teasingly at his belt where she looped one finger through a belt hole and tugged gently before letting go. He suddenly found it quite difficult to be that worried about death when a quickie with his wife seemed much more imminent. Watching her walk down the small aisle, her hips swaying slightly as she dodged a flight attendant, he smiled to himself and unbuckled his seat belt. He would find out what this "Mile High Club" was and if Merlin was merciful he might be able to extract revenge on his clever witch.

***

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Hermione asked, walking out of the Arrivals area with him, hand in hand. He looked down and grinned at her wolfishly.

"It had its moments," he said lightly, chuckling as she smacked him gently. She was grinning too.

Slipping on the glasses that Draco had charmed with a translation charm on, she looked around the airport for a sign as to where they could claim their baggage and visit immigration. "Still think all things Muggle are beneath your notice, you great ponce?"

Draco smirked and slipped on his own pair of glasses. He had learned a thing or two about Muggles and some of it he actually liked, more importantly though, he had learned a thing or two about his wife.

"I think I'm starting to like them," he offered causally. When she grinned at him, he gave her a genuine smile.

Yes, Draco Malfoy was learning.


End file.
